Dave's Neckliss

by
Charles
W.
Chesnutt

"Have some dinner, Uncle Julius?" said my wife.

It was a Sunday afternoon in early autumn. Our two women-
servants had gone to a camp-meeting some miles away, and would not
return until evening. My wife had served the dinner, and we were
just rising from the table, when Julius came up the lane, and,
taking off his hat, seated himself on the piazza.

The old man glanced through the open door at the dinner-table, and
his eyes rested lovingly upon a large sugar-cured ham, from which
several slices had been cut, exposing a rich pink expanse that
would have appealed strongly to the appetite of any hungry
Christian.

"No," said Annie, "I won't. Just sit down to the table and help
yourself; eat all you want, and don't be bashful."

Julius drew a chair up to the table, while my wife and I went out
on the piazza. Julius was in my employment; he took his meals
with his own family, but when he happened to be about our house at
meal-times, my wife never let him go away hungry.

I threw myself into a hammock, from which I could see Julius
through an open window. He ate with evident relish, devoting his
attention chiefly to the ham, slice after slice of which
disappeared in the spacious cavity of his mouth. At first the old
man ate rapidly, but after the edge of his appetite had been taken
off he proceeded in a more leisurely manner. When he had cut the
sixth slice of ham (I kept count of them from a lazy curiosity to
see how much he COULD eat) I saw him lay it on his plate; as he
adjusted the knife and fork to cut it into smaller pieces, he
paused, as if struck by a sudden thought, and a tear rolled down
his rugged cheek and fell upon the slice of ham before him. But
the emotion, whatever the thought that caused it, was transitory,
and in a moment he continued his dinner. When he was through
eating, he came out on the porch, and resumed his seat with the
satisfied expression of countenance that usually follows a good
dinner.

"Julius," I said, "you seemed to be affected by something, a
moment ago. Was the mustard so strong that it moved you to
tears?"

"No, suh, it wa'n't de mustard; I wuz studyin' 'bout Dave."

"Who was Dave, and what about him?" I asked.

The conditions were all favorable to story-telling. There was an
autumnal languor in the air, and a dreamy haze softened the dark
green of the distant pines and the deep blue of the Southern sky.
The generous meal he had made had put the old man in a very good
humor. He was not always so, for his curiously undeveloped nature
was subject to moods which were almost childish in their
variableness. It was only now and then that we were able to
study, through the medium of his recollection, the simple but
intensely human inner life of slavery. His way of looking at the
past seemed very strange to us; his view of certain sides of life
was essentially different from ours. He never indulged in any
regrets for the Arcadian joyousness and irresponsibility which was
a somewhat popular conception of slavery; his had not been the lot
of the petted house-servant, but that of the toiling field-hand.
While he mentioned with a warm appreciation the acts of kindness
which those in authority had shown to him and his people, he would
speak of a cruel deed, not with the indignation of one accustomed
to quick feeling and spontaneous expression, but with a furtive
disapproval which suggested to us a doubt in his own mind as to
whether he had a right to think or to feel, and presented to us
the curious psychological spectacle of a mind enslaved long after
the shackles had been struck off from the limbs of its possessor.
Whether the sacred name of liberty ever set his soul aglow with a
generous fire; whether he had more than the most elementary ideas
of love, friendship, patriotism, religion,—things which are half,
and the better half, of life to us; whether he even realized,
except in a vague, uncertain way, his own degradation, I do not
know. I fear not; and if not, then centuries of repression had
borne their legitimate fruit. But in the simple human feeling,
and still more in the undertone of sadness, which pervaded his
stories, I thought I could see a spark which, fanned by favoring
breezes and fed by the memories of the past, might become in his
children's children a glowing flame of sensibility, alive to every
thrill of human happiness or human woe.

"W'en Dilsey started down ter de quarters, who should she meet but
Dave, comin' in fum de cotton-fiel'. She turnt her head ter one
side, en purten' lack she didn' seed Dave.

"'Dilsey!' sezee.

"Dilsey walk' right on, en didn' notice 'im.

"'OH, Dilsey!'

"Dilsey didn' paid no 'tention ter 'im, en den Dave knowed some er
de niggers be'n tellin' her 'bout de ham. He felt monst'us bad,
but he 'lowed ef he could des git Dilsey fer ter listen ter 'im
fer a minute er so, he could make her b'lieve he didn' stole de
bacon. It wuz a week er two befo' he could git a chance ter speak
ter her ag'in; but fine'ly he cotch her down by de spring one day,
en sezee:—

"But all er Dave's yuther troubles wa'n't nuffin side er dat ham.
He had wrap' de chain roun' wid a rag, so it didn' hurt his neck;
but w'eneber he went ter wuk, dat ham would be in his way; he had
ter do his task, howsomedever, des de same ez ef he didn' hab de
ham. W'eneber he went ter lay down, dat ham would be in de way.
Ef he turn ober in his sleep, dat ham would be tuggin' at his
neck. It wuz de las' thing he seed at night, en de fus' thing he
seed in de mawnin'. W'eneber he met a stranger, de ham would be
de fus' thing de stranger would see. Most un 'em would 'mence'
ter laf, en whareber Dave went he could see folks p'intin' at him,
en year 'em sayin:—

"Fus' Dave didn' mine it so much, caze he knowed he hadn' done
nuffin. But bimeby he got so he couldn' stan' it no longer, en
he'd hide hisse'f in de bushes w'eneber he seed anybody comin', en
alluz kep' hisse'f shet up in his cabin atter he come in fum wuk.

"Mars Dugal' had Wiley tuk back ter de plantation, en sont fer a
doctor fer ter pick de shot out'n 'im. En de ve'y nex' mawnin'
Mars Dugal' sont fer Dave ter come up ter de big house; he felt
kinder sorry fer de way Dave had be'n treated. Co'se it wa'n't no
fault er Mars Dugal's, but he wuz gwine ter do w'at he could fer
ter make up fer it. So he sont word down ter de quarters fer Dave
en all de yuther han's ter 'semble up in de yard befo' de big
house at sun-up nex' mawnin'.

"yearly in de mawnin' de niggers all swarm' up in de yard. Mars
Dugal' wuz feelin' so kine dat he had brung up a bairl er cider,
en tole de niggers all fer ter he'p deyselves.

"Dey wuz a pile er bark burnin' in de middle er de flo', en right
ober de fier, hangin' fum one er de rafters, wuz Dave; dey wuz a
rope roun' his neck, en I didn' haf ter look at his face mo' d'n
once fer ter see he wuz dead.

"Den I knowed how it all happen'. Dave had kep' on gittin' wusser
en wusser in his mine, 'tel he des got ter b'lievin' he wuz all
done turnt ter a ham; en den he had gone en built a fier, en tied
a rope roun' his neck, des lack de hams wuz tied, en had hung
hisse'f up in de smoke-'ouse fer ter kyo.

"Dave wuz buried down by de swamp, in de plantation buryin'-
groun'. Wiley didn' died fum de woun' he got in Mars McIntyre's
hen-'ouse; he got well atter a w'ile, but Dilsey wouldn' hab
nuffin mo' ter do wid 'im, en 't wa'n't long 'fo' Mars Dugal' sol'
'im ter a spekilater on his way souf,—he say he didn' want no
sich a nigger on de plantation, ner in de county, ef he could he'p
it. En w'en de een' er de year come, Mars Dugal' turnt Mars
Walker off, en run de plantation hisse'f atter dat.

There was a short silence after the old man had finished his
story, and then my wife began to talk to him about the weather, on
which subject he was an authority. I went into the house. When I
came out, half an hour later, I saw Julius disappearing down the
lane, with a basket on his arm.

At breakfast, next morning, it occurred to me that I should like a
slice of ham. I said as much to my wife.